Imperfect Strangers
by Coneflower Adams
Summary: Hunchback of Notre Dame fanfic! It took forever to write too. A young woman with a horrible past seeks refuge in Notre Dame Cathedral and finds a some new friends...or enemies?
1. Sanctuary

Midnight had crept over the city of Paris: the blinding darkness had swallowed the light around the city. No-one was roaming the streets. All was quiet. But the peaceful silence was soon disturbed by a young girl running through the alleyways. Two men were running after her, shouting. The girl rounded a corner and stopped from exhaustion. The men were getting closer. She could hear their voices right around the corner from her. She took a deep breath, picked up her skirt and started running again.  
The girl turned another corner and hit something hard. She found herself on the solid ground rubbing her head. She looked up to see a tall, skinny figure on the ground in front of her wearing a long cloak. That was all she could see: the darkness prevented her from noticing anymore.   
"Oh my goodness. I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" she asked, standing up fast.  
"No, you only nearly killed me," the man replied.  
"Here. Let me help you up-" She extended her hand out to him, but he refused and stood up on his own. "I'm sorry I knocked you down."  
"Why were you running? Can't you see it's the dead of night?" He brushed himself off then looked down at her, seeing part of her face hidden in her hooded cloak that the moon was shining on. "Why is someone like you out here, anyway?"  
The girl heard the two men coming that way.  
"I can't explain. I have to go. Do you know where Notre Dame cathedral is?"  
"Yes. It's down that way." He pointed down the alleyway.  
"Thank you. And I'm so dreadfully sorry..." she said, running off.  
Clopin watched what he could of her run in the direction he had indicated. "What an odd girl."  
The two men came running through, not even noticing Clopin standing in the shadows. Curious, he decided to follow them to see why they were chasing the girl. He trailed behind them from afar till they reached the cathedral. The two men went in, whilst Clopin waited outside concealed in the darkness. Minutes later, he saw the Archdeacon showing them out. They walked away ranting and raving about some girl they had to catch.  
Clopin slid into Notre Dame after they left. The cathedral was empty. Frustrated, Clopin left the cathedral.   
  
  
  
  
"Thank you, Father. I knew I'd be able to find help here," the girl said, walking into a secret room with her hooded cloak still on.  
"I am always here to help you, my child. And so is someone else in here."  
"Yes, I know. He helped me get away from..." The girl's attention drifted. The Archdeacon put his hand on her shoulder.  
"From who, my child?"  
"Oh, no-one, Father. Can I ask you for one more favor?"  
"Anything."  
"May I please stay the night? I'm scared that those men might find me. I know they will."  
"Of course you may, if you don't mind sleeping in the bell tower. Quasimodo has a spare bed up there."  
"Quasimodo? That's the hunchback, isn't it?" she asked, stunned to hear that he was real. "I always thought he was a legend."  
"No. He is very real. But, please, do not treat him like he's not a person. Because he is a person, with emotions."  
"Don't worry, Father. I know how it feels to have people stare at you and point. My skin is so fair, I look like a ghost! And my hair is so blonde, it looks white," she laughed, pulling a blonde lock from her hood. "I have no idea where I came from."  
"I can understand, my child. But you are a very beautiful girl, from what I can see. Maybe people are jealous."  
"I don't think they are. Well, good night, Father."  
"Good night, my child."  
The girl started up the stairs to the bell tower, anxious to meet Quasimodo, when something occurred to her. She turned back to the Archdeacon.  
"Oh, Father, I forgot to tell you. My name is Curran."  
"It is an honor to meet you, Curran. Good night."   
  
  
  
  
With candle in hand, Curran climbed the stairs to the bell tower. She opened the door at the top and walked into a room. Still dark, she felt her way through quietly until she knocked over something that made a huge clang.  
"Who's there?" she heard a voice in front of her.  
She froze and didn't speak a word. Her heart was racing as she tried to get a word out. "Are you Quasimodo?"   
Light from a lantern flashed in front of her and she saw the misshapen figure for the first time.  
"Yes-" he said, holding the lantern up to her. Quasi froze also when he saw the ocean-blue eyes staring back at him. She pulled off her hood. That's when he saw her face. The face of an angel. "Are you an angel?"  
"No!" She smiled. "My name is Curran and I need a place to stay for the night. The Archdeacon sent me up here."  
"You can stay here. Come with me."  
She followed the bellringer to another room close by. "This is my friend Esmeralda's room when she comes to stay with me. You can have her bed."  
Curran sat on the wooden bed. The mattress was made of straw and feathers, which was usually uncomfortable to Curran, but she didn't care. She was too tired even to think.  
"Thank you, Quasi. Sorry I woke you."  
"No, it was my pleasure, Curran. So, why are you here?"  
She didn't want to start a conversation - she was too tired for that - but she didn't want to hurt his feelings. "Can I tell you the reason in the morning? I am very tired," Curran said, trying to be polite.  
"Oh, yes. I will leave you alone to sleep now. Good night."  
"Good night."  
Quasi left and Curran was left alone to fall asleep right when her head hit the pillow. 


	2. The Story

The bleak night turned into shining morning. Curran was still sound asleep as the sun shone into her dusty room in the bell-tower. Quasi walked in silently not to wake her. She was facing the wall and all he could see was a golden blonde mass of locks that glittered in the sun. She was still wearing her black cloak and even though she was sleeping, Curran looked exhausted, breathing uncomfortably. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at her until he heard the stairwell door open.  
Quasi turned his head that way to see Clopin standing in front of him. Quasi hurried to close the door to hide Curran.  
"Quasimodo, how are you?" Clopin asked, drawing closer.  
"I'm good. I'm fine. What do you want?" He stayed in front of Curran's door, subconsciously guarding it.  
"I was wondering. Did a young girl come here during the night seeking refuge?"  
"Here?"  
"Yes, here. You can't hide her. The Archdeacon told me she was up here."  
Quasi's head dropped.  
"Yes. She is here. But how do you know of her?"  
"She nearly ran me down last night in an alleyway. But she was polite about knocking me on the ground. Then she asked where the cathedral was. After she ran off, two men came barreling through the alleyway. I followed them and ended up here."  
"How do you know those men were after her?"  
"It's obvious. The girl was searching for the cathedral, then I saw the two men coming out of the cathedral complaining about a girl they were trying to catch having "disappeared". Is she in there?"  
"She's sleeping."  
"Let me in. I want to see her."  
Clopin tried to pass, but Quasi stopped him.  
"Why?"  
"I want to ask her why she was being chased. She might need a place to hide. The girl can't stay here forever."  
"Could you come back later? Curran was so exhausted last night, I think she might want to sleep a little longer."  
"So, the girl has a name. All right, Quasi. I'll come back later. Just make sure she doesn't leave."  
"Don't worry, I won't let her go anywhere."  
Clopin raised his eyebrow at him.  
"Good day, Quasimodo" Clopin said, turning to leave.  
"'Bye."  
He watched Clopin finally leave, then quietly opened the door to Curran's room again. Seeing her still in her slumber, Quasi closed Curran's door and went to ring the morning bells.   
  
  
  
  
Curran rolled over, a little dazed. Her eyes focused and saw Quasi staring back at her. She smiled as she realized where she was.  
"Good morning," he greeted her contentedly.  
"Morning, Quasimodo. It feels like I've been in bed for years. How long have I been out?"  
"Four days."  
"Four days!" she repeated.  
"You must have been really tired."  
"I was. I can't believe I slept for four days."  
Curran sat up and turned her whole face toward Quasi to reveal a purple spot beneath her right eye. Quasi was shocked by what he saw. "Is that a black eye?" he asked, mouth agape.  
Curran placed her hand over her eye, embarrassed. "Oh, is that pesky thing still there after four days?"  
"How'd you get it?"  
"From... from my loving husband, Jarrett," she said sarcastically.  
"Why did he do that to you?"  
"It's hard to explain. But can I tell you something before I go into my problem?"  
"Yes. Go right ahead."  
"Where I come from, which is a very long way away, I was told of you by a storyteller that came to my village. I enjoyed the story, but thought you were just a made-up character. A legend, you might say. I found truth and innocence in your life story. You were an image of pure innocence that I loved.  
"Unlike Jarrett. For months, I tried to change his ways, but made him worse. He was never a good person anyway. More of a manipulator. He forced me into marrying him. I hardly even know him."  
Curran stood up and took off her cloak. Quasi's astonishment grew as he saw the cuts and bruises on her arms and shoulders.  
"Did he do all that to you?"  
"I'm afraid so. That's not the worst of it."  
Curran pulled off her blouse, to leave her wearing only her corset. She turned, pulled her long golden hair out the way, and pointed to a scar on her back.  
"That is where he plunged a knife in my back. I almost died from it. He didn't think twice about stabbing me. The reason he did this awful thing to me was because I was talking to a stranger on the street. A man my age. Jarrett was jealous. He dragged me away by my hair. At home that day, he told me to my face 'You are mine. You'll always be mine. No-one else can ever have you. You'll die before another man will get you!' I was stunned by those words. But, stupid me, I fought back. That's when he went into a rage, picked up his knife and stabbed me. With no expression of remorse, he left, leaving me bleeding all over the floor of our house. If it wasn't for my friend Ivona hearing my screams, I would have died that day.  
"I recovered, but he dragged me back to our house. I had to go with him everywhere after that. He controlled me like a puppet. He used me for relief, something for him to hit on any time he was mad. I tried to escape, but he caught me and locked me in the basement. For weeks, I didn't see the light of day. I knew I was going to die if I didn't do something - or at least die while trying to do something. When he came down one day, I bolted out the door with all my strength - which was very little. I traveled here for days with Jarrett's two dogs on my tail. Every time I thought I'd lost them, there they were, coming for me. I had heard of the great cathedral of Notre-Dame. I knew I could hide there. And, here I am."  
Curran didn't act like what she'd been through was anything important. Quasi couldn't believe what he had heard.  
"You didn't deserve that treatment."  
Curran smiled. "Thank you. You don't deserve to be in this bell-tower yourself."  
"It's kinda hard going outside. The people who don't know me are either scared or intimidated by me. I don't go outside much."  
"You should," she said, slipping on her blouse. "I know I'm not intimidated by you. I think you're precious." She touched Quasi's cheek and he blushed. Curran put her cloak back on and walked past him to the door.  
"Where are you going?"  
"Down in the cathedral to pray."  
"You're not leaving, are you?"  
"I'm not leaving as long as Jarrett's two dogs are out there waiting for me. I'll be back soon."   
  
  
  
  
Covered by her hooded cloak, Curran went to the pew in front of a statue. She knelt down and bowed her head. She prayed Jarrett would never find her. She doubted that he wouldn't. He meant every word that she was only his and that he would kill her before another man could have her. He was coming after her himself soon. She could feel it.  
A person in a purple cloak knelt down beside her. Curran's eyes shifted to look over at the person. She didn't recognize him as one of Jarrett's henchmen.  
"If you need a place to hide for a long time, I can take you there."  
Curran looked up at him. She thought quickly while biting her lip about his offer - then grabbed his hand.  
"Come with me."  
She brought him to the bell-tower. Quasi was gone doing his chores, so she led Clopin through to the main area of the bell-tower. Stopping in mid-step, she turned to the man.  
"Who are you and why do you want to help me?"  
"I am Clopin, king of the gypsies. If you are in trouble, milady, I am here to help."  
"'Milady!' That's a joke," she laughed, walking around the area: she picked up one of Quasi's figurines and started to fiddle with it. "What makes you think I am a lady? A formal lady at that."  
"May I be courteous?" Clopin asked, taking off his floppy hat.  
"Look at me. I'm lashing out at someone I don't even know. I must be holding in my anger from this morning."  
"This morning? What made you so angry , milady?"  
Curran let out a frustrated sigh. Her past was fixing to nip her again. She began the story of her problems, or rather the problem, and, like Quasi, Clopin was shocked at the real-life story. She tried to tell it with no emotion, but she was crying inside. Curran didn't let her emotions get to her. She was too stubborn to let them - her emotions - or Jarrett win.  
"Your husband is a monster. How could someone do that to a girl of such beauty?"  
Curran blushed. "My beauty, if I have any, will not stop Jarrett from being crazy. He's done other things to me that I cannot talk about. If I try, I know I'll break down."  
"What other things did that monster do to you?"  
Curran looked into his eyes, horrified. He saw what she meant from her eyes, and knew what she was saying.  
"Oh. I see." Clopin bowed his head, staring at the floor.  
"I may appear pure, I wish I still was, but I'm nowhere near an angel. Actually, I don't even know where I came from. I was found in a basket in a river by nuns. They called me the "river angel" sent from God to brighten their lives. I was raised in Calais by the nuns with my sister, Tempest. She wasn't my real sister, but to us, it didn't matter. We loved each other and thought of each other as sisters."  
"Where is Tempest now?"  
"Last time I heard from her, she was in Calais. That was three years ago."  
"Why didn't you go back to the convent? You would have been safe there."  
"No. I couldn't put the nuns who raised me in danger. I met Jarrett in Calais. So, he knows where I came from. I couldn't go back there."  
"Well, you can come with me to the Court of Miracles."  
"The Court of Miracles?" Curran asked, puzzled.  
"Yes, it is every gypsy's safe haven. You are welcome to it."  
The girl looked around her, seeing how small the bell-tower was and thinking of the freedom she might have if Jarrett's henchmen didn't know where she was located.  
"How can I pass up an offer like this? I'll go. Oh, wait! I told Quasi I wasn't going to leave."  
"He'll understand. Besides, he can come and visit you anytime. He knows where the Court is. I'll send someone to tell him where you are."  
"Okay. How are you going to get me out of here without one of Jarrett's dogs seeing me?"  
"I have a few ideas. But first, you have to wear this."  
Clopin pulled out a purple piece of cloth from his belt and handed it to Curran.  
"A blindfold?"  
"You have to wear that just in case. You're not a gypsy, and from that, you can't be trusted yet."  
"So, you're bringing me to your safe haven, but you don't trust me. That makes sense," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. 


	3. Unfriendly Welcome

But Clopin's grin only widened at her retort. "Any more of that, mademoiselle, and you'll find this cloth can serve equally well as a blindfold and a gag!"  
"You wouldn't!"  
"Be quiet, then!" replied Clopin as he pulled the purple cloth over Curran's eyes. "We have to do this with everyone who comes to the Court for the first time. You shouldn't take it personally."  
"I won't - but does it have to be so tight?"  
"Yes!" Clopin replied sternly. "You can't be allowed to see anything."  
"Please!" Curran pleaded as he dragged the hood of her cloak back over her head and tucked her hair within. "I won't be able to hear anything either if that's over my ears!"  
"So much the better!" came Clopin's reply. "The only way I can get you out of here without being spotted is if you pretend to be a blind old woman - and the only way you can hope to be convincing as a blind old woman is if you're entirely dependent on me. Here's my arm. Hold on to it like an old woman would."  
Curran obeyed, feeling for his arm with her hands.  
"Now crouch your body over like an old woman - good - and make your hands clawlike, bend them inward - yes, well done!" He chuckled. "The very picture of an old crone! For a lady you're remarkably good at this."  
"If I'm so good at this, can't I just pretend I'm blind?" she whispered as she shuffled towards the exit, leaning on the gypsy's arm.  
"You wouldn't last a minute, cherie. Besides, that blindfold covers your face if your hood slips back. Now lean close to me, we're about to leave the cathedral." She nodded: she saw nothing but the thick, purplish darkness pressing in on her eyes. "You'll be going down the steps in a moment, cherie. Seven of them. Remember, you're an old lady, so take your time."  
It amazed Curran later how vulnerable she'd been without her eyes. Even steps as shallow as those leading down to the Place de Notre-Dame seemed ready to trap her into a fall. But what amazed her more was the realization that although she'd been cautious in her movements, she hadn't for a moment been afraid. If she had fallen, Clopin would have caught her: she'd been keenly aware of his lean strength supporting her as she hobbled her way across the cobblestone Place.  
Then Clopin startled her by speaking aloud to some people in front of them. "Please sir, would you spare a copper for my poor blind mother? Please sir, she's so cold and tired... We came in all the way from the country, we went to the shrine of Saint-Louis but it looks like there'll be no miracle today for her, poor dear..."  
"Go away and leave us in peace!" growled a man's voice.   
"Oh please sir?" Clopin wheedled. "Just a sou? Charity is all we seek, just a little bit of Christian charity -"  
Someone cleared his throat loudly. It wasn't until Clopin flinched sharply that Curran realized he'd been spat on.  
"But Christian charity is, by definition, for Christians!" came the voice of the man again. "Not for Gypsies. And the sooner you Gypsies get the message and get out of our city, the better!"  
Another man laughed loudly. "You heard him, beggar. Now get out of our sight, before we kick your old mother lame to go with her blindness!"  
Curran was pulled backwards in Clopin's haste to get away. Though careful not to betray her anger in her movements, she seethed with anger at the treatment Clopin had just suffered from those men. A single sou wasn't so much to ask, for Heaven's sake! Jarrett used to demand five gold livres from his tenants in taxes each year, taxes to be paid just for the privilege of existing on his land. And a cruel man like Jarrett got respect from people, whilst a gypsy who did nothing more than ask for charity got spat on and insulted and told to get out of the city...  
"We're out of the Place now," Clopin's voice murmured in her ear. "You can relax, they've no idea you've gone."  
Suddenly the horrified realization of who they were came to her. "You mean those men - were Jarrett's dogs??"  
"None other," Clopin replied casually. "They had to be, they were looking at all the young women who passed by - plain or pretty."  
"And you walked up to them deliberately?" Curran could hardly believe it. "Clopin, are you completely mad?"  
"Cherie, if I'd seen them and walked off in the opposite direction that would have alerted their suspicions at once. But going up to them and begging with my hand out - would I have done that if I had the woman they were looking for on my arm?"  
"I suppose not."  
"Exactly! And if it makes you feel any better, I couldn't have pulled it off if you hadn't been such a convincing old woman." Curran felt a momentary warmth of pride and gratitude at his words. "But you still have to keep it up until we get to the Court, so come along!"   
  
  
  
  
"You can look now, cherie, we've arrived."  
"At last!" Curran muttered as she reached behind her head and pulled off the cloth. By now it had started to give her a headache, together with her heavy hood that muffled sound and breathing. She lifted her hood, shook her fair hair free and looked around her.  
Not since the street festivals in Calais had she seen such a riot of colour. She was in some kind of building with a high brick vaulted ceiling. It had no windows, but the shadows were chased away with campfires and candlelight, and the stern lines of the brick walls were softened by layer upon layer of bright canvas. The billows of fabric formed tents for a whole congregation of people: some were sitting on the ground before her in a circle, playing cards and chatting, others were sitting in corners hard at work at their trades - blacksmithery, glassblowing, carpentry. The shock of the colour and movement after so much darkness made her blink momentarily. After the shock, she realized that the gypsies' movement had ceased.  
All of them were staring right at her.  
She was used to people in the street finding her flaxen blonde hair strange, but she wasn't prepared for this level of attention. Shyly, she looked down at the floor whilst Clopin clambered up to the raised stage where two nooses swung eerily.  
"Brothers and sisters!" he called, his voice echoing around the walls. "Some of you may be aware that a woman asked for sanctuary in Notre-Dame two nights ago. The wolves that chased her to Paris still lie in wait for her outside the cathedral doors, so I brought her to a place where she might feel truly secure. Her name is Curran. Brothers, sisters, I look to you to give her shelter and a true Romany welcome!"  
He had evidently prepared the speech to attract applause and cheers, but only a few clapped or murmured their approval. The rest just stared at Curran's blonde hair - not even her eyes, she thought in panic, just her hair! - with expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility. Their eyes did not soften as Clopin descended from the stage and took her hand to lead her to her new tent.   
  
  
  
  
Curran bent over and examined the bed - or rather, the shallow cot of straw - that had been provided for her by the gypsies. A shiny black beetle crawled to the surface and clambered over the straw. Trying to swallow her disgust, she picked up the insect between her fingers and flung it to the other side of the tent. She watched in relief as it scuttled away.  
"What's your name, then, 'milady'?"  
The speaker was a gypsy girl of about Curran's own age. She and half a dozen other girls had entered Curran's tent whilst her back was turned - now, as before, they stood gazing at Curran's wavy white-gold hair. Curran looked up and noticed, with surprise, that the left side of the girl's face had been burnt long ago in some accident. Her cheek was hard and rippled like melted candlewax.  
"How do you do? My name's Curran," she said with a friendly smile, holding out her hand.  
But the girl just stared at her blankly. "How do I do? What's that supposed to mean? How do I do what?"  
As the girl's friends started laughing Curran's face burned with embarrassment. "That's just an expression we have in Calais - it means how are you."  
"Oh, I know what it means," the girl answered unsmilingly. She took Curran's hand in hers and started to examine it. "Here, come feel this hand!" she said to the other girls. The others flocked around Curran, all touching her hand as if it were no longer part of her. "That's the softest skin I've ever touched in all my life," commented the girl with the scarred face after her friends were finished.   
"T-thank you," Curran said awkwardly.  
The girl's lip curved in a sneer. "I bet you've never done a day's work in your life, have you 'milady'?"  
Her voice was so nasty that it took Curran's breath away. Clopin had believed she was a 'proper lady' and treated her politely - now these others were treating her with contempt because of it. What should she do - explain to them that Jarrett had forbidden his wife to do housework? That he'd beaten her once after he'd caught her doing the work the maid had forgotten to do? No. She wouldn't stoop to trying to make them pity her.   
"You don't need to be so hostile," was all she finally said.  
"You don't need to be so hostile!" the other girl mimicked, exaggerating Curran's voice and mannerisms as the other girls giggled. "Yes, and you don't need to be so stuck-up! You think you're something special, don't you, gajo? Do you think you're too good for a gypsy camp?"  
"No, but obviously you think I am!" Curran shot back, sick and tired of being polite. "Your leader Clopin didn't think I was - he invited me to stay as his guest, and he said I'd be welcome. If you don't like my being here, maybe you ought to discuss it with him! Now get out of my tent, I want to rest."  
The girls left the tent as silently as they'd entered and Curran collapsed on the straw cot, her head aching once more and her face flushed with suppressed anger.  
Is this the refuge you promised me, Clopin? she thought bitterly. 


	4. The gaje

Evening settled on the city. A smoky darkness slowly descended on the roofs, softly extinguishing tapers and candles until the whole of Paris was still. But in one high room overlooking the Place de Notre-Dame, a light still burned and three voices whispered harshly and urgently.  
"You were right, noble seigneur. We entered the Cathedral this afternoon, and overheard the hunchback talking to the archdeacon about her. It seems she was there this morning, but she left with another man before noon -"  
"You were meant to watch every entrance, you fools! Didn't I tell you -?"  
"Seigneur we did, but he must have used an entrance we didn't know about."  
"Or maybe he's a wizard, to spirit her away like that -"  
"Superstitious nonsense!" A fist slammed against a tabletop so violently the candlelight flickered sharply. "I don't want excuses! I want you to find her!"  
"Perhaps... Perhaps the seigneur could ask the city guards to help him find her?"  
"Idiot! You think I want to draw attention to the fact my wife flew the coop and made me the laughing stock of the region? In any case, it's not as if she'll be my wife for much longer. It's settled - we'll do things my way, and you'll get no pay until I have her in my grasp."  
"Yes, seigneur."  
"Keep an eye on the cathedral and the churches hereabouts. The little Christian will go to Mass once she thinks she's safe enough, and then we'll have her. And if not -" the voice grew warm with anticipation - "if that doesn't work, there's more than one way to skin a cat..."   
  
  
  
  
At that moment Clopin grinned to himself as he arranged the bouquet of flowers within the jug. The men would laugh if they saw the great Gypsy King choosing flowers for a woman like a lovesick fool - but the fact remained that he was no lovesick fool! All he was doing, as leader of the Court, was organizing a simple gift to welcome the Court's latest visitor. White roses suited Curran's pale elegance, and if he added a white silk ribbon wrapped around the jug the effect should be -   
"Very nice."  
The poisonous sarcasm in the watcher's voice almost caused Clopin to drop the rose he was holding. "Oh it's you, Vesha," he muttered as he saw the girl with the burnt cheek watching from the tent's entrance. "It's customary to let people know you're there, you know - did no-one ever teach you manners?"  
"What, you mean manners like that 'milady' you've got holed up here?" the girl replied as she entered. "It's her I've come to talk to you about."  
"Curran?" Clopin said, startled. "Why? What's wrong?"  
"She's what's wrong! That little mademoiselle! She's only been here a couple of hours and already she's been acting the fine lady, patronizing us and trying to make us feel like dirt!"  
"Really? What did she do?"  
"Told us to get out of her tent like we were her servants! And then she acted like we were the rude ones, because we said how soft her skin was. It was like she was too grand even to talk to us!"  
"Really?" Clopin repeated, aware of how stupid he sounded. He knew Curran was a lady, but he hadn't considered the possibility that she might think herself too good for the Court of Miracles. "Well - it's possible she might have misunderstood something you said. Did you say anything that might have offended her?"  
"You're acting like it's my fault now!" Vesha said indignantly. "All I said was about how soft her skin was! Honestly, Clopin, whose side are you on - the Gypsies' or the gaje's?"  
"It's not a question of 'sides', Vesha!"  
"Oh, isn't it?" the girl spat back at him. "It's not a question of sides? Do forgive me, I must be wrong - I thought I was forced to live down here because gypsies aren't accepted above ground! I thought that in Paris I could be put in the stocks for daring to dance in the streets to earn my living! I thought that in Paris a girl could be called a slut if she were a gypsy!"  
"Vesha -"  
"Let me finish, Clopin... I thought - stupidly, I thought - that in Paris a girl could be held down by half-a-dozen French soldiers and a flaming torch pressed against her cheek for the sole reason that she was a gypsy!!"  
Clopin could see that the girl was close to tears as she finished her speech, and tactfully looked away. "Vesha, no-one denies the wrong that was done to you. But because some gaje are evil doesn't mean they all are, and if one of them is persecuted - an outcast like the gypsies - we should look beyond their race and give them shelter."  
"And you don't think she had enough shelter in Notre-Dame?" Vesha sneered. "You're a hypocrite, Clopin! You didn't look beyond her face! Come on, admit it - if your precious Curran was old, and fat, and ugly as sin, wouldn't you have left her back in the Cathedral instead of inviting her down here?"  
Her words contained enough truth to sting Clopin hard. "It's not her fault she's beautiful, Vesha," he said at last.  
"No," Vesha agreed. "Maybe not. But she is a gajo. She's a stranger and she doesn't belong here. All I want you to do is promise you won't treat her with favoritism. Let her taste the real gypsy life with the rest of us, instead of lying on a bed of white rose petals as your favored guest! Do you agree?"  
"You're not in a position to demand anything of me, Vesha. Do you understand?"  
"Perfectly." The girl with the scarred face made as if to leave, but just before the exit she paused and turned back to him, a horrible smile on her lips. "And you'd better understand this, Clopin - the moment you start putting the gaje over your own people is the moment you say goodbye to your position as the Gypsy King. You rule because we elected you, and if you decide you like French people better we true Gypsies can always find a new King."  
"I don't listen to threats, Vesha."  
"But you just did, didn't you? Sweet dreams, your Majesty!"  
Clopin waited until past midnight before he left the Court of Miracles with the jug of white roses: no-one saw him leave, and no-one saw him return empty-handed. In the morning, however, a merchant walking in the old cemetery was surprised to see a bouquet of fresh white roses sitting in front of a mossy, long-neglected grave. Engraved on the headstone were the words Curran Lefebre, morte le 5me mai 1455, but the name meant nothing to him at all.   
  
  
  
  
Quasimodo wrinkled his nose as he waded through the slime that led him to the Court of Miracles. There must be other entrances - ones that didn't stink so badly - but he hadn't been granted the secret of those ones, so he always had to use the one he'd found with Phoebus long ago. Now the light was growing, and he heard the sound of voices beyond. He knew he should tell the guards he was present, but he felt uneasy about approaching the men who'd once trussed him up for hanging. Instead, he flattened himself against the stone and peered round the corner of the entrance, hoping for a glimpse of her.  
He saw her almost immediately - spotting that thick mass of blonde hair was no hard task, he had to admit! She was sitting down over a large sheep's fleece, picking out stones and splinters to make it ready for spinning. But as she raised her head the sight of her face made him gasp quietly. It was as if she'd aged four years in the four weeks she'd spent down in the Court: instead of youth Quasimodo saw grim determination, and instead of her former spirit and humour there was only quiet despair.  
Then Curran raised a finger to her mouth to suck out a splinter, and Quasimodo saw the blood that stained the creases of her palms. With horror, he realized that her soft hands had been badly grazed by the rough work she'd been made to do. Now they were so raw that every splinter reopened the wounds and made them bleed again.   
"Clopin..." Quasimodo heard Curran call faintly to the Gypsy leader.   
"What is it, mademoiselle?" he replied. No 'milady' or even 'cherie' now, Quasimodo noted with disbelief, just the formal 'mademoiselle'. He wasn't even looking at her - in fact, it was as if he was trying not to look at her.  
"I've finished with this fleece now, it's clean and ready for spinning."  
"Good. You know the routine - place it on the pile for the spinners and pick up another one from the pile by Vesha."  
"Clopin - please may I go on spinning or washing duty? My hands are beginning to hurt."  
"No, not until you've finished with the fleeces! Otherwise the spinners will have nothing to spin. Now find another fleece and start again." And Clopin turned away towards where the blacksmiths were working. Quasimodo took one last look at Curran's miserable face, strode out from his hiding place and placed himself directly in Clopin's path. Boiling with rage, he yelled:  
"What in the name of the Almighty is going on here???" 


	5. Curran's Visitor

Clopin was thunderstruck at the sight of the squat hunchback in his path, seething with rage, but covered his surprise quickly. "Why, Quasimodo, long time no see!" he replied calmly, with a wide smile. "And whatever brings you to the Court -"  
"Don't try to fob me off with excuses, Clopin! Don't even think about it! I came down here to see how my friend Curran was and this is what I find! She came down here to get away from bad treatment, not to get even more of it!"  
Curran had risen to her feet as soon as she'd heard Quasimodo shouting. Now she approached the scene and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Please Quasimodo, I'm fine! Really I am -"  
"You're not fine! You can't tell me that you are! When I saw you just now I barely recognized you!" Turning to Clopin, the hunchback spat out, "What did you want to do, Clopin, crush her spirit like her husband did? Because if you did, well done! Congratulations! Mission accomplished!"  
"What are you saying, hunchback? That your little friend can't do some hard work for once in her life?"  
"Stay out of this, Vesha!" Clopin commanded fiercely before turning back to Quasimodo. "You have to understand, Quasimodo, the people who want to be part of the Court of Miracles are expected to work like everyone else. It's only fair."  
"Work, yes - but this? Show him your hands, Curran! Show him!"  
"No!" Curran clenched her bleeding palms into fists, and the sound of her voice raised in anger was enough to silence Quasimodo and everyone else in the Court. "I don't want your pity! I don't want anyone's pity, all right? I wanted to show everyone here that I could work just like they could. I'm not asking for special treatment, my friend, just a chance to prove myself."  
"But you've been through enough, Curran," Quasimodo said gently, taking her hand in his. "You don't need to prove yourself to me, and you shouldn't need to prove yourself to them. You've worked hard for them, but has one of them even tried to be your friend?"   
Curran looked at the sea of faces that surrounded her and then sighed. "Not really, no.".  
"I thought not," Quasimodo said quietly, darting a murderous look at Clopin. "Please, come back to the belltower with me. You've proved yourself, and if they don't want to know that's their problem."  
Curran nodded, blinking back tears. "Thank you, my friend. Yes, I will come back with you. Just let me get my cloak and I'll be with you." She took one final look at Clopin, shook her head as if in apology and walked over to her tent. Meanwhile Quasimodo stared at the faces around him with pure contempt. "Oh, don't worry about either of us giving away the secret path to your precious Court of Miracles," he sneered. "We want nothing to do with any of you, ever again!"   
Curran rejoined him, and the entire Court watched quietly as the slender girl and the limping hunchback vanished into the tunnel mouth. "Well, that's that then," Vesha remarked to break the silence.  
"Shut up!" Clopin shouted, whirling around with such fury that for an instant she thought he was going to strike her. "Just shut your stupid mouth, Vesha, you've caused enough trouble already!"  
"What's the matter, Clopin?" called another gypsy man as Vesha shrank back, silenced. "It's not like she belonged here!"  
"That's true!" called another. "She was nothing but a stranger, when all's said and done!"  
Maybe so, Clopin acknowledged to himself as he marched into the confines of his tent. But the fact remained that through fear at what his people might think, he'd treated her worse than anyone else in the Court. And now his behaviour had ensured she'd never talk to him again. Thanks to him, he and Curran were strangers - and could never be anything more.   
  
  
  
  
"I'm sorry I caused such a fuss down there," Quasimodo muttered as the two of them emerged from the cemetery into the evening air and began the walk back to the cathedral. "I have a really bad temper sometimes, and when I lose it... I really lose it."  
"Forget it!" Curran smiled, and squeezed his arm tighter. "To be honest, I was happy that someone else thought I wasn't being treated fairly. I didn't want to say so because I didn't want to look like I was complaining... but it was nice of you to speak up for me like you did."  
"What puzzles me is why Clopin didn't speak up for you," Quasimodo said thoughtfully. "I mean - this will sound silly, but when I first saw him asking about you I thought he had a bit of a crush on you. I thought he wanted you down there with him because of that."  
"Do you want the honest truth, Quasimodo? So did I."  
"You did?" Quasimodo blinked. "So is that why you -?"  
"I don't know! I honestly don't know why I decided to go with him," Curran sighed. "I know he was handsome, but it was more than just that... And he was so kind to me up in the cathedral! I felt that I could talk to him and he'd understand - just like you."  
"So what happened?"  
"I don't know! The very next day when I saw him it was if he'd changed completely - like he was no-one I could ever hope to know. I tried talking to him but he just didn't want to speak. He always had something better to do. One of the girls there didn't like me, she kept giving me all the hardest work and he just looked on without saying a word."  
"He's a fool," Quasimodo said venomously.   
"Don't say that! I think he had to show his people I was no different from anyone else."  
"By treating you worse than the rest of them? He's a fool."  
The two of them continued in silence until they reached the Place de Notre-Dame, now enshrouded in darkness. "I've missed the cathedral," Curran said softly as they approached. "I can't wait to see the view from the top of the belltower again!"  
"You've got all the time in the world, milady," Quasimodo smiled as the two of them crossed the threshold into the candle-illumined nave.   
  
  
  
  
The next morning Curran waited until Morning Mass had ended and the cathedral was empty before creeping downstairs to pray. This was the first time in a month she'd been able to enjoy some blessed solitude and she intended to make the most of it. She faced the altar and bowed her head. Her first prayer was one of thankfulness that she'd been released from the drudgery of the Court of Miracles, and her second was pure gratitude that she was back with Quasimodo again.   
But her third prayer was for Clopin. She knew he was unhappy right now, that he was regretting the way he'd treated her - and for her part, she'd forgiven him when she'd turned to leave and saw the desolated expression on his face. She prayed for him to find peace, even if it meant forgetting her completely.   
But why pray for him? Quasimodo's voice seemed to cut across her mind, blocking out the Gypsy King. He treated you like dirt, why should you feel sorry for him?  
Because we all make mistakes, Quasimodo, she replied silently. And because if we're strong we learn from them. The nuns taught me that nothing in this world is wasted, even suffering, because with the right heart it can all be turned to good. And I hope something good comes out of this, even if I can't see it yet...  
Her thoughts were interrupted by the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw the kindly face of the Archdeacon. "Yes, Father?"  
"My dear child, there is a girl outside who says she wishes to speak with you. She says you'll remember her."  
An icy claw clenched around Curran's heart. She knew she ought to practise forgiveness - it was expected of anyone who called herself a Christian - but it was so much easier to forgive Vesha from a distance! "Could you ask her to come back later on tonight, Father?" she managed. "I really don't want to see her at the moment - I'm worried that if I see her right now I might say something I'd regret."  
"Oh, now that's very strange!" said the Archdeacon, raising an eyebrow. "She said she was a very good friend of yours. Something about you being sisters, or nearly so?"  
"It can't be!" Curran jumped out of the pew and began to run down the aisle. "She's here? Here in Paris?"   
"It would appear so," said the Archdeacon, a twinkle in his eye as Curran reached the door and cried out in joy.  
"Tempest! My God, Tempest, is it really you?" 


	6. She's gone!

The Archdeacon smiled approvingly as he watched Curran run to her friend, and nodded in satisfaction as the two hugged each other in a tight embrace. From where he stood, the girl called Tempest was about four inches taller than Curran and had a beauty about her that threatened almost to overwhelm her paler friend. Curran's beauty lay in her delicate elfin features and pale-gold hair, but Tempest's came from her dramatic cheekbones and the contrast of the dark waves of her hair with her stormy blue-grey eyes.  
As he wandered away to inform Quasimodo, the two girls broke apart and stood surveying each other in wonder. "I still can't believe this!" the girl called Tempest said, breaking the mystified silence which had descended. "When I heard that the latest sanctuary seeker had pale-gold hair and looked like a ghost, I thought it might be you, but... I can't believe I was right!"  
"I'm so glad you were!" Curran laughed. "But what are you doing in Paris, Tempé? I had no word from you, but I thought you'd still be in Calais!"  
"Oh, so much has happened! Has the priest gone?" Tempest looked around cautiously, then turned back to the doorway. "Jeannette! Psst, Jeannette!" she hissed quietly. "You can come in now!"   
At Tempest's whispered command, a tiny pink hand grasped the edge of the stone archway and Curran watched in astonishment as a small girl, no more than two years old, waddled slowly past the carved saints and into the dark interior of the cathedral. "Good girl!" Tempest cooed as she picked up the little girl. "Mama's proud of you!"  
"You mean... you have a daughter?" Curran stared, astonished, at the little girl whose black curls and eyes made her a portrait of Tempest in miniature. "Oh Tempest, she's beautiful! But when did you get married? Why didn't you tell me?"  
Tempest shrugged her shoulders awkwardly. "Oh, you'd already moved away, I think - it was such a shame, as I did want you to be there for my wedding. Anyway, his name's Jean, and he's a clothmaker from Avignon. The most wonderful man in the world, Curran! And now I have the most wonderful daughter in the world too!"  
Curran recognized the fierce love in her friend's eyes whenever she gazed at her daughter. "That's wonderful, Tempé! I'm so happy for you."  
"Enough of me - what about you?" Tempest said with a huge grin. "You always used to have men buzzing around you in Calais - have you decided on a particular suitor yet?"  
"Yes - I married him a year ago, and I wish I hadn't..." Shuddering, Curran outlined the tale of her life with Jarrett, ending with her decision to claim sanctuary in Notre-Dame. "I'm here with Quasimodo, the bellringer they told us about in Jarrett's village. The stories about his heart of pure gold are all true - he's the kindest person I've met since I've been here. Sometimes I wish I'd married him instead of Jarrett!"  
Tempest shook her head slowly. "I can't believe your husband would be that cruel to you. How could he?"  
"I've asked myself that every day since I left him, and I still haven't figured out why. And, it gets worse - I think he's still looking for me. I know his men were outside Notre-Dame a month ago, and knowing Jarrett I don't think I'll ever be safe here."  
"Hmmm." Tempest was silent for a few moments, then the familiar grin spread back over her face. "I know what you can do! Why don't you come back to Avignon with me and Jean? We'll be going back to Avignon for good in another couple of days, we were just here to visit Jean's family."  
"Could I?"  
"Of course you could, silly! If you come back with me they'll never be able to follow you!"  
"Oh yes, they probably will!" replied Curran gloomily. "They hunted me all the way from Paris, didn't they?"  
"Ah, but that's because you went by the roads," Tempest answered smugly. "But Jean and I came to Paris using the rivers, on our own houseboat! He owns it, it's just the two of us. Once you leave with us on the waterways you'll be far away and safe! They'll have no idea where you're headed!"  
"I don't know..." Curran hesistated. "I've just got back, and Quasimodo..."  
"Quasimodo nothing! Look, this is what we'll do," Tempest replied loudly, with her typical self-assurance. "If you're not sure yet whether you want to leave, you can come back with me and I'll tell Jean all about my plan at our houseboat. If you decide you want to come to Avignon, that'd be wonderful - and if you don't, at least my husband will have met my sister!"  
"Well, all right..."  
"Besides, little Jeannette would love you to come along and meet Daddy, wouldn't you sweetheart?"  
The little girl nodded from her mother's arms, and Curran giggled.  
"Oh come now, that's not fair! How can I resist both of you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
It was a beautiful day outside. He could tell from the strength of the sunlight pouring in through the stained-glass windows. He sat in the pool of light that illumined the entrance to the belltower stairs - right at his feet, the sun's movements were causing the multi-coloured diamonds to shift like a kaleidoscope, scarlet lozenges meeting and melting into shapes of sunflower yellow and sea-green. The slow dance of the colours normally brightened his spirits, but now Quasimodo sat with his head in his hands and saw only the darkness around him.  
What could he do now? He didn't want to think about it anymore, but he couldn't stop reliving the moment when Curran had burst into his attic and told him of the friend from childhood who had arrived that day and who now wanted her to leave for Avignon. Quasimodo had seen Tempest from the galleries and from the Archdeacon's words he'd guessed her purpose: now, faced with Curran's happiness, he didn't have the heart to beg her to stay with him just one night more. He'd waved her farewell with a smile on his face, concealing the misery he'd felt as he watched her walk away for good.  
The sound of footsteps in the nave roused him from his thoughts, and a wild surge of hope that maybe Curran had not deserted him after all made him look up eagerly. But all he saw was the lean figure of Clopin standing by the pillar, looking at him with a puzzled expression.  
"Quasi! Quasimodo, what's the matter?"  
Quasimodo lifted his gaze from the floor and focussed weakly on Clopin. "Go back to your rat's nest, Clopin. Curran doesn't want to see you."  
"Maybe not, but I want to see her!" Clopin replied, stung by the insult. "Where is she? In the belltower?"  
"Where is she?" Quasimodo's laugh was dry and unconvincing. "You're too late, Clopin. Her best friend just came and took her away. An hour ago. She won't be coming back."  
"What are you talking about? Tell me!"   
Quasimodo began to explain how Curran's childhood friend had arrived, but he stopped when he saw the look of absolute horror on Clopin's face.  
"Which way did she go, Quasi?" the gypsy man burst out. "Which way? Tell me!"  
Not bothering to wait for the answer, Clopin turned for the door - and, the next instant, felt a titanic force grab him firmly. Both of Quasimodo's hands clamped his wrist like an iron vice, pinning him to the spot. "Clopin, you are not going to interfere in her life again!" the hunchback hissed in his ear. "She's finished with you - forget her!"  
"I'm not interfering!" Clopin shouted, using every ounce of his strength to twist himself out of Quasimodo's grasp. "Listen to me for a minute, will you? I think Curran's in danger!"  
"Danger?" Quasimodo gaped. "But how can she -"  
"Quasi, don't you think it's strange that Tempest arrived so conveniently? Curran comes back to Notre-Dame and hey presto! Her best friend who she hasn't seen for three years turns up out of the blue the very next day?"  
"I - I suppose it was strange..." Quasimodo said nervously. "But she was her best friend in the convent, Curran said so herself!"  
"That doesn't mean anything!" Clopin snapped back at him. "I've known people who'd sell their own mothers for a bag of gold, never mind some long-lost friend! We have to find her! Tell me, which way did they go?"  
"Down to the river. Tempest said... said that she was married to a clothmaker, and that he had his own houseboat moored at the docks."  
"Come on then!" Clopin turned and sprinted towards the bright doorway. A moment later Quasimodo passed him, and then both were racing across the Place de Notre-Dame, running in the direction of the docks.   
  
  
  
  
How much time had elapsed since Curran had left with Tempest? An hour, maybe even less than that. Had she met up with her cruel husband yet? Had he bound her hands and shut her terrified in some small room somewhere, in the darkness? Hadn't Curran told Quasimodo that Jarrett had promised her, 'You are mine. You'll always be mine. No-one else can ever have you. You'll die before another man will get you!'  
You won't die, Curran, Clopin thought grimly. We'll find you. And when we do we'll make sure he can never hurt you again -  
"T-there," Quasimodo panted as he struggled to keep pace with Clopin's long strides. "There's a fisherman, he might have seen something..."  
When they asked him, the grey-haired fisherman scratched his head slowly. "No zur, I seen no blonde girl, no." More slow pondering. "But it was a pretty dark-haired lass I saw, she had a man and a little babby girl with her. A fine rich man by the looks of him, too. The man climbed up on that there boat and helped them up -"  
"What boat?" Clopin demanded, his eyes scanning the riverboats that bobbed at the harbour's edge. "Which of these boats?"  
"Oh no, there was a riverboat 'ere, zurs, but it's gone now. They cut the jumprope not ten minutes agone and then they set off that way." He thrust his thumb towards the flat horizon where the sun set the river sparkling. "North-west, I reckon."  
"Did you see which way the man and the girl came from?"  
"Oh yes, zur, that way." He pointed to the eastern edge of the river, where the docks gave way to a marshy undergrowth of trees and reeds. "Now I thinks of it their feet was all wet and muddy, and the little girl was bawling fit to burst -"  
He blinked as the two men turned away without a word and started running as if their lives depended on it. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his nets. He'd never understand city folks, that much was clear.  
Swiftly Clopin and Quasimodo crashed through the undergrowth by the riverbank, row upon row of stiff rushes breaking and shattering in their paths. "Do - you think - that man was Jarrett?" panted Quasimodo hoarsely as he struggled to keep up with Clopin's pace.  
"Don't know," Clopin muttered. "But he said their feet were wet and muddy. That means they were by the river's edge."  
"Oh no -" Quasimodo stopped as the dark possibilities of that fact washed over him. "You don't think -"  
"I don't think anything yet!" Clopin replied savagely. "We're going to find her, Quasimodo. I'll search here, you look further on."  
Silently Quasimodo ran further up the bank. He pulled a thick forked branch free from one of the riverside trees to pull the reeds apart. Only an hour since she'd left, he thought desperately, only an hour. He couldn't have - not in an hour - but why was she crying? Why, when she boarded the boat and sailed away with her mother, was Tempest's small daughter crying?  
And then he saw her.  
Quasimodo's breath seized in his throat at the sight. Curran was lying in the midst of a bank of rushes, as if stronger hands had tossed her there. Her face was turned away from him, and her loose hair spilled out over her shoulders. Her cloak was gone and her arms were stretched above her head. She was completely still.  
"Curran? Curran?" he said, his voice faltering as he bent down over her. She did not answer. He turned her over to face him.   
His hands came away wet with her blood. 


	7. Problem Resolved

She was drowning.  
She could feel the current pulling her under, dragging her away from the light, and she knew she was going to die. She could not smile at the thought, but it never occurred to her to fight. Why should she? This sluggish peacefulness wasn't like life. It didn't sting. It didn't hurt. Around her thick dark clouds swirled, parting and rejoining, forming silhouettes of the life she was leaving behind. Notre-Dame, tall and majestic. The Court of Miracles, alluring colors and broken promises. And the last thing she would ever see, the Seine with a glitter so bright it hurt her eyes.  
The nuns always called me the "river angel".  
And Jarrett -  
Jarrett was there in front of her, laughing. His fingers were clamped hard around her upper arm. "You fool," he whispered, a cruel smile on his lips. "You should have known better than to think you could escape me -"  
She tried to pull away, but he was too strong for her. "Tempé!" she'd screamed desperately at her friend, the black-haired beauty who stood beside. "Tempé, it's Jarrett! Run! Get help!"  
But Jarrett's answering laughter broke her heart. "Get help? Ma chere, it was she who led you straight to me!"  
"T-Tempé..."  
"She was for sale, and I bought her!" Jarrett sneered, proud and exultant. "She didn't tell you she'd got her daughter by a man whose name she didn't even know, did she? Didn't tell you that when I found her she was starving on the streets! So I offered her enough money to climb out of the gutter she'd landed in, and she took it. Didn't have to think too hard about it, either."  
"Tempé!!" Curran twisted desperately within his grasp, trying to get a good look at her friend's face. "Tempé, tell me he's lying!"  
"MAMA!" wailed the little girl. "Mama, what's he doing?"  
"Shut that brat up!"   
Sobbing, little Jeannette buried her face in her mother's shoulder. Tempest turned away. Curran's eyes turned back to her husband's face, then to the scabbard on his belt, and she understood.  
I was found by a river... I will die by a river.  
"Jarrett," she pleaded, "You don't have to kill me. For both our sakes, let me go." He laughed. She went on, more desperately. "Jarrett, if you kill me your soul will be damned to Hell and nothing will be able to save it! Let me go and I will pray to God for you every night of my life-"  
The slap of his bare palm on her cheek silenced her. "Superstitious nonsense!" he growled at her. "I can't let you go. I can't let you live. The whole of Calais thinks you're dead, and next month I marry a countess with more money than ten men could count for a year!"   
"Jarrett - I'd never tell -"  
"I will tell no lie when I stand in front of the priest," he said, his eyes as distant as if he was imagining the moment. "I have no living wife. I will be married without blame. I will be rid of you!"  
Curran screamed as his hand reached down and pulled the huntsman's knife from his belt. Scarcely knowing what she did, she pulled away from his iron grip - and at that moment she felt the knife-blade enter at her shoulder. A bone cracked. Fire poured down the length of her arm and she screamed. He flung her away from him - she saw the sky above her, empty and still as a painting - and then she felt the second wound.  
Now the fire left her arm and she wore a red-hot collar on her throat. She felt the weakness of her neck, felt the blood pouring down and soaking into her dress.  
When he let her go she was too weak to do more than stand, arms lying limp at her sides, trying to breathe. He pushed her away and she fell into a bank of rushes.  
Her lungs were bursting. She was drowning in blood. The river sparkled mockingly at her.  
You will die by a river. You will die...  
And suddenly death, oblivion, was no longer sweet. She wasn't going to give in to the darkness that beckoned her. She would fight. Using her good right arm she propped herself up against something, then lay back and lashed out. Her hand connected with something and she grasped hold of it. She heard her name, a man's voice speaking, and she screamed at it. She struck out blindly again and again.   
  
  
  
  
"Curran, Curran!" The voice no longer echoed in her mind. It ripped through a very real silence. "Open your eyes. You're safe now, you're home!"  
She opened her eyes, and found herself propped up on stuffed cushions. She was in a bed with linen sheets and woollen blankets, and Clopin was sitting beside her. One of her arms was in a sling: her one good hand had seized the front of Clopin's costume and held it with a white-knuckled grip.  
"Oh," was all she could think of to say.  
Clopin's eyes held both relief and nervousness. "Either you were dreaming, ma cherie, or.... You really do hate me. When I said your name you attacked me, screaming curses I never imagined you knew!" He looked at her sadly. "Do you hate me? Tell me honestly if you do, I won't blame you. I deserved every one of those names."  
"No!" Curran said wildly, grasping hold of his hand to steady herself. "Clopin, that wasn't you..." Still shaking, she told him what she had seen and who she was fighting against. As he began to mutter a curse on Jarrett in his harsh-sounding Romany language, she glanced around her. With its rough walls, darkness on every side, the room looked like nothing she had yet seen in Notre-Dame.   
"Erm - Clopin - where exactly am I?"  
"The Court of Miracles. We've been looking after you for the past week."  
"That long?!" she exclaimed.  
"You were in some kind of stupor. You'd lost a lot of blood, and you didn't seem to know what was going on. So I fed you as best I could, and I waited for you to come back to us. The wise woman of the Court told me you had to want to come back -"  
"And I did," Curran finished for him.  
"Curran... Why did you want to come back?"  
She sighed heavily. "I'm not going to say what you want me to say, Clopin," she replied sarcastically. "I'm not going to pretend that I fought for my life just to see you again, or that you're the only reason for my existence! I know you must have a thousand girls telling you that, you don't need me saying it too."  
Now he sighed. "That's not what I want."  
"What do you want then?"  
"Just... I just wanted you not to hate me."   
"All right," she said woodenly. "I don't hate you. I don't have any feelings for you, one way or the other -"  
"Curran!!!" He groaned her name as if it was tearing him apart. She stopped speaking. "Curran, forgive me. I was a fool and a coward. I had to choose between you and my people - if I had dared to love you, they would have deposed me as ruler of the Court! So I told myself I could live without you, I hardened my heart and stamped out any feelings I had... And it still did me no good. When you walked out of the Court, I realized I'd been the biggest fool on this earth."  
She was silent.  
"And now it's too late, isn't it? You love Quasimodo, don't you?"  
"I do love Quasimodo..." she whispered.  
He turned his face away.  
"...But only as a friend," she continued, as if to herself. "He's been the kindest person I've ever known. He's looked after me, defended me, put me above everything else... But I can't think of him as anything more than a friend. I wish I could, I know how kind he is, but I can't."  
"But why not?"  
"Because... My heart isn't made that way."  
And she let her eyes meet his gaze.   
"Curran," he said softly, "I told the Gypsies what happened to you, and every one of them is sorry. Vesha was distraught when I told her about your life. And I told them I was ten times worse than any of them, for letting them treat you as they did. I told them - that I didn't deserve to be the King."  
"That's not true!"   
"Oh, they refused to let me leave," he added, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I'm still their leader, for the moment. But whilst you lay here I made you a promise. I promised you that if you wanted to live up there with me - in your world, the gajo world - then I would leave and go with you. I'm not afraid of hard work, and I want to deserve you."  
"Clopin, you can't make that kind of sacrifice for me!" Curran exclaimed, her eyes wide in horror. "You barely know me!"  
"I knew you were the one for me as soon as I found you in the belltower," he smiled. "Now I look back on it, I finally understand what people mean when they use the word "love". And you felt something for me too, didn't you?"  
As his arm snaked around her waist she leaned against him, her spirits soaring. "I couldn't understand what I felt," she said excitedly. "My mind fought against it every step of the way! How could I feel anything for - for a perfect stranger?"  
"Oh, I'm not perfect," he said wryly. "Anything but. An imperfect stranger, let's say."  
She hugged him with her one free arm. "Clopin, I won't let you do it! I won't let you leave the Court!"  
"We won't have to. I asked my people if they could ever accept a gajo woman as their Queen."  
The full meaning of his words stabbed her, and she gasped. "But - my love-"  
"Hush! They said they would, on one condition."  
"W-what condition?"   
Clopin kissed her forehead gently. "That it was you, ma cherie", he whispered. "That it was you."  
  
  
  
  
THE END!!! 


End file.
